Decay
by Miss Katonic
Summary: Post DK. The Joker is still on the loose and plotting his next brutal act. However, the sister of the Joker has stepped out from the shadows to aid the Gotham City police. Now it's a race against time and madness. Rated T for language, but mostly violence
1. Welcome to Gotham

Disclaimer: Any unknown names? Yeah, those are mine

**Decay**

By Miss Katonic

_In the distance he could hear the rumbling of the midnight train. More closely located were the constant screechings of the bats that frequented the attic. And the children. _

_A spot of blood beaded at the man's cheek as his razor slipped. Cursing, he dabbed at the spot only to watch more bloom from the nick. Above him he heard a dry sob. Another curse rolled off his tongue, and he tightened his grip on the razor, and continued to shave the stubble from his face. _

_It had been days since she'd died, but the children refused to stop crying. Especially the boy. The little bastard wasn't even his but now he was supposed to take care of him. _

_Another sob from the attic met the man's ears. _

_Oh, he'd take care of him. _

_Swearing, he wiped his face with a dry towel and stormed up the squeaky stairs. Each step screeched like the bats above as he ascended and flung open the door. _

_The sobbing instantly ceased. The man ignored the closer of the two beds, and approached the boy's. _

_"She's gone!" he roared, irritated by both the bats flurrying around his head and the whimpering boy. He clamped one hand on the boy's scrawny neck and with the other, still holding the razor, brought it to the boy's trembling lips. Along both sides of his cheeks was a curved path of dried blood, clotted from the night before. _

_"I muh . . . miss her," the boy stuttered, his eyes wide as he stared at the blade._

_"You're a child," the man spat. "You're supposed to play. Laugh. Smile. So again I ask you: why so serious?" _

_The boy shrieked as he drew the blade across the already-cut skin. Blood flowed easily down his cheeks, and the child tried to wriggle away from the man, but he held tight to the boy's throat. _

_"If I hear you crying again tomorrow night," the man threatened, bending down close to the boy, "I'll open those sores up again. Do you want that?" _

_The boy shook his head vigorously, drawing up one hand to his mouth to staunch the blood._

_"Good," was all the man said, turning away. He airily swatted away a few of the bats that continuously circuited the room and headed for the door, but already he could hear the boy beginning to whimper again. The man knew he'd be back tomorrow night, carving that smile right back into the child's face. _

**Chapter One**

**Welcome to Gotham**

"Commissioner Gordon?"

The man addressed looked up from the paper he'd been reading to survey the secretary before him. He raised his eyebrows as a silent, "Well?" and waited. The secretary glanced at her watch. "There's a woman here to see you."

"What's her name?"

"She failed to give me a real one." The secretary sniffed, and concluded, "and gave me only 'Sorora.'"

"Make sure she's been through security, then send her in," Gordon ordered wearily, laying down his paper. The day had been wrapping up so pleasantly--not a stone to catch in the cogs until this. Several minutes passed until Gordon began to wonder (and hope) whether the woman had left.

"Miss Sorora, Commissioner," the secretary said drily, reappearing at his door, and leaving as swiftly as she'd come.

The woman--Sorora, presumably--entered the office. She appeared to be on the early end of her thirties and kept her dark blonde hair pulled tightly back. Her clothes looked as if they'd been just pressed in the lobby, and the heels she wore added a good four inches to her considerable height. Her face was pleasant, but solemn and perfectly creaseless, as if she had never experienced emotion before.

"How may I help you?" Gordon inquired gently. Sorora sat down stiffly at the chair across from him and folded her hands on the desk..

"I've been sent from the Reeves Precinct," she began crisply.

"Welcome to Gotham."

Sorora ignored his greeting and pulled out a resume. "As you can see, my credentials are excellent." Her tone was not boastful, but matter-of-fact.

"Chief Detective, huh?" Gordon muttered, glancing at the paper. "How is old Clark doing these days? I thought he was chief."

"He died several months ago," Sorora responded tonelessly. "About the same time I was promoted, in fact. Funny how the world works."

"Funny." Gordon agreed, unamused. He brought his eyes from the resume back to the woman. "And why were you sent here? I didn't receive any memo about your arrival."

"It's all below boards, Commissioner. Surely in light of recent actions in this city you can understand why. I didn't even know I was coming to Gotham until this morning."

Something like a growl crept up Gordon's throat, and the woman cracked a forced smile.

"Come, now, Commissioner. You of all people know that not every cop can be trusted. If it were discovered I was here, things would not end prettily."

"If you don't mind me asking, Miss Sorora, what makes you so special?" Irritation was growing in Gordon's mind as he looked across the table at this calm woman.

Sorora sighed patiently, and tucked her resume back into her briefcase.

"Some of my best connections," she began softly, "could not be on a silly resume. I assure you my help in your case to catch the Joker will prove vital. You see, Commissioner, he is my brother."


	2. The Agent

Chapter Two

The laboratory was vast. The high ceilings disappeared in the shadows cast by the low-hanging fluorescent tubes. Every metal table gleamed with a pristine glow achieved by only the most obsessively compulsive. Test tubes and beakers sat organized on racks and shelves, neatly labeled and ready for use. Burners hummed softly underneath gently bubbling liquids encased in jars, and somewhere in the distance, _March of the Four Seasons_ played.

The project was complete.

In the corner of the room was a brilliantly polished red leather chair finished with deep mahogany and brass. A small coffee table of the same wood sat next to the chair, and on the table slept a Dr. Howard Young. On his thin, pointed nose rest a pair of steel-rimmed glasses, and a pepper-grey beard neatly framed his jaw.

A sleek cellphone resting by his head began to chirp a mechanical song, and the doctor started. Snatching up the phone, he silenced the alarm and ran a comb through his already smooth hair. It was time.

He slid the phone in the pocket of his corduroy pants and hurried up a flight of stairs overlooking his lab, to the door opening into the alley. He unlocked the several bolts above and below the doorknob and swung the door open.

There stood Lucius Fox, his arm raised and his fist ready to knock on the steel door.

"Right on time!" Dr. Young exclaimed delightedly, smiling brightly. Shaken but amused, Lucius nodded, smiling, and let the chemist usher him out off the street.

"Now you do know getting a patent will take more than just me having you sign a few papers."

"Yes, yes," Dr. Young muttered absently, reaching the bottom of the stairs and flying down one long aisle of set-ups and experiments.

"Tell me a little bit about this . . . what do you call it?" Lucius called, nearly jogging to catch up with the scientist who had now reached the other side of the laboratory.

"Decagent!" Dr. Young cried happily, producing a small phial of a pale violet liquid. "It's a play-on of the words "decay" and "agent" because it's a decaying agent!"

"I see." Lucius held the bottle to the light, and noted the container. "Synthetic crystal?"

Dr. Young's head bobbed up and down excitedly, "Yes, yes. It affects all organic substances, aging them at a considerable rate."

"Really?" Lucius was impressed. Dr. Young took the phial from him and unscrewed the cork. He walked over to a potted rose, and glanced back at Lucius.

"Observe," he instructed, and let fall a single drop on a rosebud. Like time-lapse photography, the bud burst into bloom and then crumpled to a wilted state.

"Astounding, doctor, really," Lucius applauded, smiling. "But what did you make it for?"

Dr. Young looked baffled at the businessman. "I _made_ it, isn't that enough? Let someone else find a _purpose_. The point, Mr. Fox, is that a concept has been realized."

"To each his own, then. May I have a small sample to take back?"

"But of course!" Dr. Young agreed, and threw open a nearby cabinet. Inside was a single faucet with several handles and buttons. Seeing Lucius's confusion, Dr. Young explained, "I keep all my inventions hidden away, and only the correct combination will yield to my samples. He began turning knobs and punching buttons, and finally a trickle of lavender liquid issued from the faucet. The scientist caught it in a similar phial and screwed the cap on tightly.

"Be careful, Mr. Fox." His tone was no longer light and cheerful. "When I say all organic substances, I mean _all_ organic substances. Plants, rocks, animals, humans. Be careful."

"Doctor, I wouldn't have the job I have if I didn't listen and act cautiously. Relax. There will be no trouble," Lucius assured him. "A meeting will be held on Tuesday as we discuss the possibilities, and you will be expected to give a presentation next Friday at two."

"Yes, yes, that sounds wonderful," Dr. Young cried, smiling brightly. Infected by his good humor, Lucius smiled as he finished, "If you could give me the name of your lawyer or the firm you got to-"

"Oh, no, I don't have a lawyer," Dr. Young interrupted. "I like to handle all my business myself. I don't trust anyone else."

"I'm honored by your faith in me, then," Lucius replied, his mind now uneasy. Something about lawyers (God knows it wasn't the personality) present made him more calm, but the eccentric man had every right to conduct his life the way he chose.

"We'll be in touch, Dr. Young," Lucius said, taking the stairs two at a time. The doctor saw him out the door, and then securely locked it again, thinking, _what a lovely day._

/\

"DNA checks out," Detective Ramirez concluded, dropping a folder of paperwork on Gordon's desk. "Same mother, different father, but she's the real thing."

"Thank you." Gordon rubbed his temples, thoroughly perplexed. Of course it was not beyond the realm of possibility that the Joker have a sister; it was the concept that he'd been _born_ at some time, been through puberty, gone to school (perhaps). It was almost too difficult identifying the Joker as a human rather than a beast or a machine. And to be related to a woman so collected, so calm, so . . . altogether normal? It seemed a travesty that such a woman call such a monster "brother," but that was not Gordon's issue to come to terms with.

"Bring her in," Gordon instructed, surveying the folder's contents. The female detective left the office and returned shortly with the impeccably dressed sister.

"Miss Sorora," Gordon began, gesturing for her to sit down, "we tested your blood next to a sample of the Joker's found in interrogation room six-"

"Yes? And you discovered I'm not a liar?" Sorora's tone was sharp.

"Protocol, miss. For the record. You are aware that he is your half brother?"

"Of course. There were no secrets in my family."

"What was your father's last name?"

"Smith, but you won't find the Joker through names, Commissioner. He ran away from home at twelve. Slipped through the cracks, escaped the grid, or whathaveyou."

"Pardon my frankness, Miss Sorora, but do you have any idea how a young boy became a ruthless murderer?"

Although Sorora's face had been expressionless before his question, something in her eyes deadened and her mouth went almost imperceptibly more slack. Seconds passed in silence.

"Yes, I believe I do."

Gordon glanced out the window. The sun had gone down long ago, and dark clouds of night piled over the city. The conditions were perfect.

"Miss Sorora, are you up for a bit of a trip?" Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine."

The ride in the subway was a much more accurate "welcome to Gotham" than any greeting the commissioner could have given Sorora. Teenagers with sallow skin and sunken eyes sat propped against each other, men in dark coats with shadowed faces whispered hurriedly with one another, and an old woman holding a cardboard box with "FREE" scrawled on one side babbled ceaselessly to a one-eyed, surly-looking cat with matted fur. In a corner sat a middle-aged woman, dressed primly in a business suit and talking politely on a cell phone. Ah, Gotham.

Gordon expected Sorora to ask him all sorts of questions regarding the unexpected trip, but she said nothing. Although he firmly believed a silence was only awkward if one thought it was, he began to feel out of sorts; almost wishing the woman would ask him questions so he could shush her until they reached a more private place.

"My friend is closely linked to-" Gordon broke down from the silence, but Sorora interrupted him.

"I know."

"Oh." Gordon surrendered to the silence and waited for the the right platform. No one else departed when Gordon and Sorora stepped off the train. The North Bottoms were abandoned even by criminal rings and gangs. The buildings--built in the late 1890's--were barely standing, even though they'd been renovated every ten years up until the 1980's, when they were declared unfit for human inhabitance. The streets were impossibly narrow and innocent of any sign of recent civilization. There was no trash littering the gutter, no shell of a broken down car. Nothing. The effect was erie, but, acclimated to the location, Gordon paid no heed.

He finally reached a particular building, and held open the door for Sorora. He half-expected her to make some remark about the clear lack of safety, but was not surprised when she wordlessly entered the lobby of the hotel.

"The elevators are broken," Gordon remarked, his voice echoing throughout the room. "I hope you don't mind stairs."

Seven flights later Gordon stepped out onto the roof, and held the door for Sorora. Without hesitation she walked out and looked hard at the single searchlight sitting in the center of the roof.

Knowing his explanation would be wasted, Gordon approached the searchlight, and flicked it on. Magnified hundreds of times in the clouds, the symbol never failed to give Gordon a sense of security.

Now there was nothing left to do but wait.


	3. Hanging On

**Chapter Three**

"I understand it's hard to believe, Commissioner," Sorora stated flatly. She sat stiffly on the balcony facing Gordon and the new arrival attired in black. "But madness, after all, did run in the family. My mother and her mother, and her mother's mother all had schizophrenia."

"You had no name at all?" The Batman asked, his voice harsh and gritty.

"I was 'her,'" Sorora replied, her tone level. "I was 'she.' I was 'the girl.' Naturally, my brother was 'he,' 'him,' 'that boy.'"

"Did you and your brother give each other names?" Gordon asked.

"He called me 'Sissy,' if that's what you mean."

"Did you call him by a nickname?" Gordon persisted.

"Grins. He never stopped smiling until the day Mother died."

"How did your mother die?" The Batman stood and watched Sorora carefully.

"Ate a bullet. My brother found her body. Said only her jaw was still attached to her body. The rest of her head had been blown clean off. My brother came sobbing to me saying it looked as if Mother laughed so hard her smile split her face in half."

Gordon had seen a few similar corpses but had never thought of such imagery to describe it, although as he recalled such, the metaphor applied disturbingly well.

"When Mother died," Sorora continued effortlessly, "I was five, he was seven. Father didn't take her death well at all. He seldom beat us before her death, but when she was gone, he didn't hold back. My brother used to cry at night for Mother, and that drove Father crazy. Each night he heard him cry--which was every night--he would come up the stairs to our attic room, and scold him for being so sad. Father told him children weren't supposed to be sad. Then he would cut at my brother's cheeks to make it look like he was smiling. He did this every night for weeks. My brother was constantly bleeding, and I stopped calling him 'Grins,' because it no longer applied."

"Did he ever hurt you?" Gordon asked, trying to maintain his composure in spite of the horror that had just been told.

"Not as much." Sorora tucked wisp of hair behind her ear, clearly indifferent to the words she was saying. "I was Father's biological child; he favored me for obvious reasons. I was still beaten several times a week, but he never turned the razor on me."

"Why do you think your brother has become the man he is today?" The Batman inquired, reaching the point of the entire interview.

"I minored in business," Sorora responded, "not psychology. However, it is my opinion that violence was such a personal part of his life that it was inevitable he would turn from the victim to the offender. Think what you will; believe what he says, if you want. But something changed in him the day Mother died with smile seven feet wide on her face. Maybe he's trying to laugh himself to death, like he once thought she did. Now if you'll excuse me, Commissioner, it's getting late and I'd like to get some sleep."

The two men hardly dared look at each other. This woman was almost more horrifying that the Joker with her matter-of-fact face as she retold her nightmarish childhood. As Gordon rose to follow her back down the stairs, Sorora held up a hand stopping him.

"Your company is not necessary, Commissioner. I am quite capable of retracing my steps, and I'm sure you and he," she pointed almost disdainfully at the Batman, "have much to discuss. Good night, gentlemen."

When she disappeared down the steps, Gordon turned to Batman. "I do believe that's the first almost-emotion I've seen from her yet."

"I didn't even do anything," Batman agreed.

"This woman frightens and worries me," the commissioner admitted, running his hands through his graying hair. "She's too calm considering her past. Can you imagine everything she is suppressing with every passing day?"

"I have a bad feeling about her." Batman growled. "If time wasn't a factor before, it certainly is now. She's a time bomb; the slightest move could trigger a detonation that would send her to the other side, and with a history and a brother like hers? She'd never recover."

Gordon nodded thoughtfully, chewing his lip. "I think I'll schedule an appointment for her with our in-house psychologist tomorrow. We need to know what we're dealing with." After a moment's thought, he added, "Check on her, will you? She said she'd be staying at the Grand, and we can't afford to lose her to petty thugs or . . . Grins."

/\

"You know you say someone's 'hanging on to reality by a thread?'"

Gordon nodded, watching the psychologist, Dr. White, carefully.

"I wish we were that lucky," she finished, sighing. "With a history alone of schizophrenia passed from mother to daughter dating back to her great-great grandmother, we'd be in deep shit. Commissioner," Dr. White looked thoroughly concerned as she glanced up from her legal pad to lock eyes with him, "I don't know what's keeping this woman from snapping. _She is dangerous_." Each word was stressed and elongated. "The best place for her right now is away from Gotham and from anything that could remind her of her childhood."

"Jane, she's the _sister of the Joker_. She could be the key to finding him and locking him up forever. Think of how many lives we'd be saving."

"James," Dr. White began through clenched teeth. "You are willing to sacrifice a woman's _sanity_? You have no idea what would happen if she snapped. She could be a second Joker. Is that what Gotham needs? Listen," the psychologist leaned forward, her brow creased with worry. "You have ten times the information about the Joker's personal life you had before you met her. Take that gratefully, and send her away."

"Better she snaps here, under our supervision, than unchecked somewhere else, in another city. Gotham could handle her potential better than Reeves or anywhere else."

"So you've already sealed her fate of insanity?" Dr. White demanded, her face flushing. "She is a human, not some bait for your trap."

Gordon opened his mouth to counter, but Captain Sawyer burst into the room, making him forget his words.

"Commissioner, we have a new clue from the Joker."

Gordon turned to Dr. White. "We'll finish this discussion at a later date. Captain, where was it found?"

Sawyer gestured for him to follow him, and began, "There was a break-in last night at the private laboratory of Dr. Howard Young-"

"Howard?" Gordon interrupted sharply, recognizing the name as one of his old college roommates from Gotham State. "Is he alright?"

"He's dead," she answered, "murdered. Crudely lobotomized. Perhaps some reference to him being too smart for his own good. Homicide is still analyzing the scene.

"Any note? You mentioned a clue," Gordon said, swallowing his sorrow for his friend and ducking into the police car and the captain took the wheel and hit the pedal hard.

"Yes. _The number one killer is still old age_ written on red construction paper. Sitting under a yellow apple."

"Golden delicious?" Gordon asked. Sawyer shrugged. "Maybe. I haven't seen it yet, just the report." She swerved the car around a tight corner, ran three red lights, and slammed on the breaks outside of an old building.

"Dr. Young rented the basement here for his research when the landlord told him he couldn't remove his stove to replace it with a set of Bunsen burners."

The two entered the enormous room now packed with detectives, police officers, and Homicide Division workers. _Caution_ tape was strung like tinsel everywhere, and the noise of walkie-talkies sounding and sensor utilities beeping was deafening.

Several people were crowded around the clue left on the coffee table. Gordon fought his way past most of them and looked at the note himself.

_The number one killer is still old age_

"Any fingerprints?" He asked hopefully, but knew the answer.

"No," Jason Bard, head of Homicide Division answered. "Not that there would be any. When we had the Joker before we ran him for fingerprints, but he didn't have any. Burned clean off."

Detective Ramirez approached them and drew Gordon aside. "This development changes several things, as I'm sure you know," she said in a hushed tone. Gordon knew that only he, Ramirez, Dr. White, and Batman knew of Sorora's identity, and began factoring the murder into the situation.

"Commissioner, Dr. Howard Young was a well-known scientist, loved by the community, respected by his peers, etcetera. The fear and enmity of Gotham built up towards the Joker will only increase after this, and if Sorora's identity goes public, who knows how the people with react. She could be lynched by citizens who see her only as a relative to the man who killed Dr. Young."

"We could control the publicity-"

Ramirez laughed, but caught herself and ducked her head apologetically. "Gordon, controlling the press is like trying to control the weather, you know that. But right now our priority is solving this clue before anyone else gets hurt."

"Well-put," Captain Sawyer agreed, joining the two to hear Ramirez's last sentiment. "A few of the detectives are thinking along the lines of pharmacies or hospitals. What do you suppose?"

Gordon glanced back at the note sitting beneath the yellow apple. "Is there a sticker on the apple? A brand?"

"The most popular yellow apple is the Golden Delicious. Or . . . Braeburn? It's still unclear whether the name of the apple or the color is more important to the clue, though." Sawyer replied.

Something like the beginnings of a theory began stirring in the back of Gordon's mind, but before he could let them develop a commotion erupted around the clue. Homicide had completed the necessary photos and records, and taken the initiative to flip the paper over.

_Who am I to interfere?_

Below the roughly scratched words was a playing card taped to the paper.

"Joker's wild," Gordon muttered, looking at the symbol of Gotham's prince of crime. He turned the clue over in his head.

_The number one killer is still old age. Who am I to interfere? _


	4. Not Human

**Chapter Four**

_The number one killer is still old age. Who am I to interfere?_

"Honey, are you coming to bed?" the commissioner's wife called from the doorway. She looked concerned at her husband, sitting perfectly still in his high-backed armchair, scotch in one hand, and a photo of the Joker's latest clue in the other. He stared at the cold fireplace, thinking so hard he didn't hear her question.

If the apple as an object had been a clue, the Joker would have chosen the iconic red apple. But a yellow apple? It had been confirmed as a Golden Delicious, which meant somewhere in the name revealed the clue.

_Old, gold, golden, olden . . . olden days? _Gordon let his mind wander as his eyes drifted over the bookshelf across the room. _Moby Dick, Just So Stories, The Holy Bible, Webster's Dictionary_. . . Gordon closed his eyes. _Focus. Old age, dying, gold, killer, gold digger._ His eyes rested on the extensive _Little House on the Prairie_ collection his wife adored, and skimmed the titles. _Farmer Boy, On the Banks of Plum Creek, By the Shores of Silver Lake, The Long Winter . . ._

Gordon jerked, sloshing scotch on his wrist as he sat up straight. The title _These Happy Golden Years_ had been adapted to a business for which a billboard sign that had just gone up--visible from his office window. The sign read: _You know you're in good hands when you enter Happy Golden Years Retirement Villa. _

"Oh, Christ," Gordon muttered, standing up. "He's after the elderly."

/\

Bruce Wayne lounged easily on his side, one leg resting on the back of couch. His eyes were fixed on the plasmascreen sprawled over half the wall.

"_. . . GCPD arrived on location after several sightings of the man calling himself 'The Joker' were reported around the building. Inside police found the body of Dr. Howard Young and the 'Joker's' latest clue. More news at ten." _The image of the attractive reporter faded out and changed to a toothpaste ad. Bruce sat up, steepling his fingers and concentrating.

"Alfred, did you know Dr. Young?" He asked finally. The butler, who had just entered the room, shook his head. "Not personally, I'm afraid. Although I always wanted to. I've only heard good things about him; brilliant mind, kind heart, and so forth."

"He's a chemist, correct?" Bruce wracked his mind, trying to remember all he could about the man he'd only ever heard about.

"And a fine good one, too. Eccentric, though," Alfred added thoughtfully. "He concocted chemicals on his own whim--no direction, really. It seems he'd think of a concept, and then going about making it possible through chemistry. Some people called him a magician."

"That sounds right up Joker's all . . . "Bruce's voice trailed off as his eyes realized what he was watching on the screen. "Speak of the devil."

The screen crackled black and white, showing the vague silhouette of a familiar character. Finally the picture calibrated itself, and Bruce watched in fascination and horror as the tape played out.

The location was a well-lit corner of a room. The walls were brushed steel and the ground was cement. Bound tightly in a deep red leather chair was Dr. Young, gagged and blindfolded. The screen went black again as something moved very closely to the lense.

"_Hello, Gotham," _the Joker began, taking a few steps back. His face filled the screen, and Bruce regretted buying such a massive television.

"_I hope you've missed me," _ he continued, "_because I've missed you frightfully. I've been so lonely I decided to try making a new friend. But he didn't take well to the games I play. Say hello to Gotham, doctor." _The Joker leapt over to the chair and yanked the bonds from the chemist's face. Both his eyes were nearly swollen shut, and smeared blood covered his mouth and chin.

"_Say hello from the grave, Howie_," the Joker repeated, more harsh yet amused, forcing Dr. Young to face the camera.

"_Hello_," the old man whimpered, blood dribbling from his mouth as he spoke. The Joker cackled and then moved closer to fill the screen once again.

"_But I'm not about to let him upstage me. You see, I have a message to the Gotham Police. And to the Batman." _Bruce sat up straighter, his brows furrowed.

"_I do appreciate you planning a family reunion for me, really," _the Joker began. "_Bringing my sister here was a clever move, but be careful; the apples don't fall far from each other, you know." _

"Shit." Bruce stood up and began pacing, never taking his eyes of the screen.

"_I do hope you enjoy my newest joke. I'm so glad my sister is here to see my work. All I ever wanted was approval, you see." _

The Joker looked down, as if fumbling with something. He pulled a square piece of paper in front of the lens. It was a polaroid of a woman--clearly unaware her picture was being taken--standing by the subway.

"_This is what she looks like, Gotham. Isn't she lovely? Doesn't she look like a female version of me?" _Another photo replaced the first; this one even closer up of her face. "_No scars, though," _The Joker commented unnecessarily. He then removed the photo from in front of the lens and ducked out of the frame. Several seconds passed with only Dr. Young on screen, his eyes, though barely visible, clearly terrified as he stared off-screen at whatever the Joker was doing.

"_I've heard scalpels can cut through bone," _ his said near the camera, and walked back into the frame. "_Let's experiment, shall we?" _He advanced on Dr. Young, who began shaking even harder and cowering as the shadow slipped over him. The Joker paused and pulled the photo out again. "_She really is a female version of me._"

The tape cut out and a commercial for dog food began. As puppies rollicked onscreen, Bruce clenched his fists and glanced out the window. It was only a matter of minutes before the sign appeared in the sky, but he already knew where he was needed.

/\

Sorora never slept soundly. Sometimes she awoke to noises she knew she couldn't be real. The rustling of batwings as they chirped overhead, the sniffling sobs of her brother, the pounding steps of her father as he climbed the stairs to their little attic room.

This time she heard the rustling of leathery wings. Sorora sat up in the king-sized hotel bed, drawing her knees to her chest as she surveyed the room. _A hotel wouldn't have bats_, she said to herself. She looked out the large floor-to-ceiling window by the nightstand, into the dark night.

A new noise met her hears; like rushing wind catching on a large object. Sorora stepped out of bed, shivering in her thin nightgown, and clicked on the lamp.

A terrific crash made her turn to look back at the window, which was now thoroughly shattered. In place of the window stood the figure of the man she'd met the night before, and she was not glad to see him.

"Why are you here?" Sorora asked calmly. The Batman drew nearer. "You're in danger. I've come to take you to a safer place."

"He wouldn't kill me."

"Don't be so sure," the Batman replied, "but he's not the one I'm worried about. Did you catch his broadcast earlier this evening?"

"No. I never watch television." Sorora sat down on the edge of the bed, never letting her eyes leave his.

"He knows you're here, and he's trying to turn the city's enmity from him to you."

"He always was clever."

"It's time to go, Sorora. We don't have time for you to pack your things. Come."

"Very well."

Sorora stood up and approached the Batman expectantly. He grabbed her roughly around the waist and yanked something from his belt. Securing it to the side of the wall by the window, he pushed a button, releasing a thin hooked cable from one end. He attached it to his belt, and, tightening his grip on Sorora, leapt from the window and into the world of night.

/\

"Are you alright, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked, picking at the sleeve of his jacket. Bruce slid the door to his city "Batcave" shut and looked across the roof to the butler waiting at the door of the stairs leading back to his penthouse. Sorora would be staying in his bunker (of sorts) until he met back up with Gordon.

"This woman has no emotions," Bruce said, joining Alfred as the two entered the elevator. "When I told her she was in danger, she was calm. When I told her she couldn't bring any of her belongings, she didn't react-"

"Most unusual for a woman to do such," Alfred agreed. Bruce continued, "When I held her and jumped out of the tenth-story window, she didn't gasp or scream. She didn't even tighten her grip or flinch. This woman is . . . she's not human."

"Isn't it interesting," Alfred began as finally they reached the top of the stairs, "that both brother and sister don't seem human for the way they react? The Joker reacts brutally and cold-heartedly, whereas Sorora reacts by not reacting at all."

Bruce closed his eyes wearily. It'd be a lie to say he wasn't grateful for the new insight of the Joker provided by the sister, but at the same time she was adding a difficultly foreign element to an already perplexing and highly explosive case.

In the Joker's broadcast he'd barely made mention of his latest scheme, which made Bruce wonder if he was distracted. Perhaps bringing Sorora from the shadows had shaken the fiend. It was a definite possibility . . . and an opportunity which could not be wasted.


	5. Little Hypotheses

Chapter Five

Captain Sawyer paced back in forth in Gordon's office. "A retirement home? That's . . . that's . . . " she searched for the appropriate adjective, which Gordon readily supplied.

"Madness. Do you really think he'd do something normal?"

Sawyer sighed heavily massaging her temples. "One can always hope. QRT is on their way to investigate. It seems this man likes dynamite and explosions. Finding his fingerprints won't be difficult."

Gordon nodded, checking his watch. 3.15. He desperately needed it to be dark. Sorora had been missing since that morning, and although Gordon wanted to think that Batman had taken the initiative to hide her from the public, there was still another highly plausible reason for her disappearance. Several, actually.

At 3.45 QRT had not reported any unusual activity or foreign objects in the retirement home. Gordon's secretary popped her head in his office, telling him his wife was on line one. Instantly worried, Gordon picked up the phone.

"Are you alright?"

"What? Of course I am." Her voice sounded confused, but not surprised at his question. "Jimmy missed the bus and I have a meeting until five, and then I have to wrap things up and then pick up Hannah from daycare. Can you get him up at school?"

"I have-"

"James, I know you're busy," she said wearily. "I know. But I don't like to think of Jimmy walking fifteen blocks home while there are madmen terrorizing the city."

"Of course. I'll see you tonight." Gordon hung up and clenched his fists. Bad timing. He grabbed his coat from off his chair and and shoved a few helter-skelter files into his weathered briefcase.

As he locked up his office he turned around to be face to face with Dr. White. The day had taken a decided turn for the worse.

"Commissioner, I need to speak with you about Sorora."

"Not now, doctor," Gordon growled, speeding up his pace as he headed for the parking garage. Dr. White followed.

"She's been missing almost eight hours, and she's the one person we can't afford to lose track of. Her mind is in a phenomenally delicate balance right now; one citizen trying to off her could be the catalyst."

"Not _now_, Jane," Gordon repeated himself, opening the door from headquarters into the dimly-lit garage. Upon stepping through the door, a mob of reporters and and outraged protestors rushed the commissioner.

"Commissioner! Where is this sister from?"

"Where is she now?"

"Commissioner! Is she like the Joker or is she helping the police?"

"Was she an accomplice in the murder of Dr. Howard Young?"

"What does GCPD plan on doing to stop the Joker?"

Commissioner! Is it true she is the Joker's twin?"

"Why did you keep her in hiding?"

Gordon pushed through the angry crowd, keeping his briefcase tightly pressed to his side. When he emerged on the other side, he glanced back at Dr. White, glaring at him from the door.

"The Joker's sister is not a threat," he finally stated.

"How do you know she's not just tricking you like the Joker would?"

"What's her name?"

"Why do you trust her?"

Gordon bit his cheek, and turned on his heel away from the mob, which followed him earnestly, hounding him with questions until he was safely in his car. As he emerged onto the street, he let his mind get to work. Dr. White's words of truth had rattled him. Sorora really was the only person Gotham couldn't afford to lose right now.

As he pulled up to Gotham's Sunny Days Elementary School, his son hopped up from the steps and jumped in the car, clearly delighted to see his father.

"Dad! Dad, guess what!" the blond-headed boy began eagerly, taking off his backpack and dropping it at his feet in the front seat.

Gordon forced a smile and asked the anticipated, "What?"

"I'm going on a field trip tomorrow! Miss Quilly is teaching us the history of Gotham, so we're going to the museum!" Jimmy bounced up and down as he spoke, and smiled broadly at his father, waiting for his reaction.

"That sounds like fun, son. Is it all day or will you be home for supper?"

Jimmy laughed. "Yeah, I just need you to sign this release form." He pulled a crumpled wad of paper from his jacket pocket and smoothed it out on the dashboard.

"Not now, I'm driving," Gordon chided gently, a real smile finally growing on his face. "Do you have a key to the apartment?" Jimmy nodded, and his father continued, "Good. I'm going to drop you off at the building, because I have some work I need to finish up."

"Will _you_ be home for supper?" Jimmy laughed as Gordon pulled the car by the curb outside the apartments.

"I hope so, but I have a lot to do."

"Are you helping Batman with something?"

"We're working together," Gordon replied in a quieter voice, even though he knew no one was listening in. "But don't tell your mother, ok? It'll be our secret."

"When will Batman be the good guy again?" Jimmy asked, pulling the door handle fruitlessly. Gordon pushed the automatic unlock button.

"I don't know, Jimmy. Soon, I hope."

Jimmy opened the door and scrambled out. "Me too," he agreed thoughtfully. Gordon watched the boy enter the lobby safely, and then sped to the North Bottoms. Thank goodness for the cooling season that yielded shorter days. It was hardly five, but the sun had almost set. Perfect.

Gordon parked haphazardly in the road as he reached the crumbling hotel and jumped out of the car. He leapt up the stairs two at a time until he was finally, breathlessly, on the roof, and noticed something he should have noticed before.

The bat signal was already on. The light was aimed towards the door, and the piece of cardboard Gordon had fashioned into the shape of a bat now wore a red, Cheshire grin.

The sinking feeling in his stomach wasn't the only sensation Gordon experienced, for suddenly he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, and the world went very white, and then very, very black.

He was only out for a few minutes, and when he came to, he found himself leaned against the corner of the roof, bound very tightly with bright green nylon cord. A rebar lay several feet from him, one end still dark and glistening with his own blood.

"Commissioner, I almost thought you weren't coming," said a familiar voice. Out from behind the searchlight stepped the Joker, dressed as usual in his purple suit, his face zinc white, and his mouth in its perpetual grin. He spun the light around and aimed it at Gordon. Gordon blinked in the harsh brilliance and turned his face away.

"_Tsk, tsk_. Put me in the light but can't take it yourself. Now that's funny," the Joker cackled, carelessly spinning the light back to the sky. "Now when do you suppose the Batman will be joining us?"

"It's not wise to start a fire you can't put out," Gordon commented amiably. The Joker cocked his head for a moment, slowly reaching into a pocket. In another second his face was inches from Gordon's, a knife caught in the commissioner's cheek like a hook in a fish.

"Would you like to know how I got these scars?" The Joker hissed, pulling the knife from out of Gordon's mouth and gesturing to his own.

"Actually," Gordon replied calmly, "I've already heard it." The knife was back pulling at his cheek.

"I _hate_ when someone ruins the joke by telling the punchline early," the villain sighed. "But back to business: how are you bluehats doing on my next event?"

"We figured it out easily enough."

The Joker smiled.

"Really? Because I was planning on leaving another clue on your body for the police to find. But if you've already figured everything out . . . I guess it won't matter when and where they find it. Your corpse, I mean."

"Guess where they'll find yours," came a gruff voice from behind the Joker. As he whirled around to face the new guest, the blade caught in Gordon's mouth and tore at his skin. Gordon winced, clapping his hand to his mouth to stop the blood.

Catching the Joker by surprise allowed Batman one good hit to he back of his head, but the villain quickly recovered, laughing.

"You think you can stop me?" he asked, clutching his sides as he laughed. "Ooh, hoo, hee, hee, ha, ha, ha. Ahem" He straightened to his full height, regarding Batman as the two slowly circled each other.

"I still don't see why you want me gone," he persisted. "I give you something to _do_. Did you honestly enjoy rounding up petty thugs and catching pickpockets? I mean, really-"

"What are your plans?" Batman demanded, circling closer. The Joker laughed.

"Oh, you mean Commissioner here didn't tell you about tomorrow? Just wait. It's to die for. Really hysterical. I'll be broadcasting live as they die. Their families will be so . . . _riveted._ Now if you'll pardon me for a moment, Commissioner Clever needs to be taken out of the equation."

The pair had stopped moving. They stood perfectly still five feet or so from the other. The Joker's grin widened. "Of course, if you want Commissioner to live, I might let him if you take off that mask of yours. I'm just so curious. No?" He added after a moment's pause of silence. "Very well." As he turned back to Gordon, Batman leapt forward, connecting his fist neatly to the Joker's neck. While the Joker stumbled, he _zock_ed him again--this time at his temple. The Joker fell, but caught Batman's leg with one of his knives. Batman also fell, and for some time to two scuffled on the floor in a mad wrestle for life.

The Joker ended the fight by nearing Gordon and seizing the elderly man by the neck with one hand, and holding the blade of his knife to his throat with the other. Batman froze.

"As much as I enjoy our conversations, I really need to be finishing preparing for tomorrow night." The Joker smiled. "So here's what I'm going to do." In one fluid movement he threw Gordon on the roof ledge, holding onto the bound man by one of the cords, but still pressing the knife to his throat to keep Batman at bay.

"I'll drop Gordon, you see. And then while you're diving to save him, I'll leave. And you to can discuss your little . . . _hypotheses." _The last word was a sneer as as it fell off his tongue. The Joker let go of his grip of Gordon, and the commissioner disappeared off the edge.


	6. Rebellion

**Chapter Six**

Dr. White poured herself a glass of red wine as she leaned against the wall in her kitchen. It had been another rough day at the office, and a good, dry cabernet was just the thing to help her relax. She held the stem of the wineglass loosely as she made her way into the living room of her small apartment.

"Good evening, doctor."

The glass flew from her hand, casting shimmering red droplets into the air to later stain her snow-white carpet, but even a woman as much of a perfectionist as Dr. White was could not be bothered with the ramifications of spilt wine when there was a wanted criminal lounging comfortably on her futon.

"I have a bone to pick with you about my sister," the Joker continued as easily as if he'd been invited. Dr. White stood rooted on the spot and said nothing. "You see, I've heard _rumor_ that the Batman has her locked away somewhere."

Despite the situation, Dr. White felt resentment to the mistreatment of her patient swell. "Why?" Her voice was shaky, but controlled.

The Joker shrugged. "I'm against it. Dear Sissy hates the dark. And bats. I can only imagine how much closer she is to snapping now that she's confined by the two things she fears most."

"What do you want me to do?" Dr. White asked, taking a step closer. The Joker bounced off the futon and advanced towards her. With his face mere inches from hers, he cocked his head imploringly.

"I want _you_ to get her out of there. Get her out of Gotham, doctor. I'd hate to have a casualty with a familiar face."

"Why should I?"

The Joker bit his lip and raised his eyebrows incredulously at her. "Doctor, you live by an ethical code of behavior to protect and better the condition of those entrusted to you. You _will_ get Sissy out of there because your conscience won't let you _not_ help her. See?"

Dr. White said nothing, fighting with herself to not agree with what the villain was saying on principle, but knowing he was right.

"Not enough?"

A knife was in her mouth pulling at her cheek. The Joker's grip behind her neck pinched a nerve and she whimpered. "How about _now,_ doctor?"

"Alright," she barely whispered, and the Joker relinquished his hold. She fell to her knees, shaking visibly.

"I hope so. Because if she isn't free by tomorrow at noon, perhaps _your _sister's body will be found. Maybe in the rosebushes of hers." Dr. White clenched her fists in terror and fury.

"Have a nice night," he added politely. Dr. White looked up, but he'd disappeared.

/\

"A bit late for you to be down here, Mr. Wayne?" Lucius asked gently, watching Bruce shuffle through some abandoned blueprints. It was 3am. Even the janitors had locked up Wayne Enterprises for the night.

"I'd ask the same of you," Bruce replied absently, finding the right roll of papers. "I need a new vehicle, Lucius. The motorcycle is fun, but I need something more protective."

Lucius chuckled, and continued the organization project of _Chemicals to be Approved_ he'd been working on. One whole cabinet could be attributed to the late Dr. Young. Lucius tucked the small bottle of lavender liquid onto the shelf. Remembering sadly how excited the chemist had been, he thought aloud, "Really is a shame about Dr. Young."

"Who? Oh, yeah. Terrible," Bruce agreed, unrolling the designs and looking them over.

"Why do you suppose he chose him?" Lucius continued. Working in the vast, unvisited rooms of R and D made him lonely. Conversation was always good.

Bruce looked up sharply. "I wondered that myself. Every person the Joker kills, he kills for a reason. Dr. Young wasn't a threat."

"Just a genius," Lucius added.

"I was just talking to Gordon a few hours ago," Bruce began slowly, still fitting pieces of information together. "GCPD assumes he killed him because Dr. Young was a well-loved citizen--it'd get media attention. Also, in the video he broadcasted, he tried to turn Gotham's hatred of him towards his sister. But maybe he did it for another reason." Bruce ran his hand through his hair, wracking his mind for answers. "Lucius, what had Dr. Young been working on when he died?"

"Working on? Nothing. But he had just finished this," Lucius pulled out the small bottle and handed it to him. "It's a decaying agent. 'Decagent', as he called it."

"It breaks things down?" Bruce asked, holding the bottle to the light.

"Like time on steroids. Just organic matter, though; it's being contained in a synthetic crystal. I wonder . . . was any of it missing at the crime scene?"

"If it was," Bruce replied, "no one reported it. Gordon told me all he knew."

Lucius turned this over in his mind, folding in reason and conclusions to the mix. "Maybe Dr. Young's lab needs a second look." He paused, watching Bruce, who nodded, setting the diagrams back on the desk and reaching for his coat.

"And by the way, Mr. Wayne," Lucius called to the retreating back. Bruce stopped dead and glanced back, waiting. "How is the sister doing?"

Bruce shook his head hopelessly. "Quite a piece. Alfred's taking care of her."

/\

_There had to be bats in this room_.

Sorora hugged her knees to her chest, feeling the suffocating dark press all over her body with soft, clammy fingers. Above her head she felt the flurrying of hundreds of batwings. The squeaks were deafening.

She rose off the cot and followed her memory of the room to the door and tried the handle. Locked. A bat brushed past her ear, and she batted out but touched only air. Another got its foot tangled in her hair. Sorora screamed and yanked at it, feeling the sting as she pulled a handful of hair from her head. The bat fluttered away to meet other bats; a symphony of wings singing overhead.

Sorora clamped her hands over her ears, and screwed her eyes tightly shut, and the world was quiet.

/\

"Hello, Mr. Reese?"

Colman recognized the voice as that of a woman's, but beyond that, his half-asleep mind gave up.

"Yeah?" He mumbled, rolling on his back and feeling the grip on his phone relax a little.

"Mr. Reese, this is Dr. White of Gotham City Police Department."

Colman was suddenly very awake. "Listen, lady," he began angrily, "I've been through already. I destroyed the information proving who Batman is--I can't help you. I don't want trouble, and I don't want to get shot at again."

"I understand, Mr. Reese." Her voice was low and soothing. "I'm asking you not as a member of the police department, but as one citizen of Gotham to another. Batman is hiding the Joker's sister away somewhere. She's in a very fragile state, and I have to find her. _Please_ tell me Batman's identity, and I swear to you, Mr. Reese, your name will never be mentioned."

"I want two million dollars every year for the rest of my life," Colman demanded.

"You overestimate a city worker's salary," the woman replied, amused.

"I want . . . I want . . . " Colman thought wildly, knowing it was now or never.

"Mr. Reese, give me the name." Her voice was no longer amused or soothing, but hard and unrelenting.

"How much is it worth to you?"

"Mr. Reese," the woman barked harshly, and Colman jerked. "I am a psychiatrist. Either you can tell me willingly, or I will turn your mind inside out , confuse you of your own identity, and convince you to give up the name. Now, I don't want to spend that much time on the phone, because I only have a few hours left. Let's make this as simple as possible: Give me the name."

Colman said nothing for several beats. Finally, he croaked out, "Bruce Wayne."

He heard the woman sigh heavily. "Mr. Reese, I demand you take this seriously. Who is Batman?"

"I told you!" Colman shouted, indignant. "But if you don't want to believe me, fine!" He slammed down the phone on the receiver, and flopped back into bed.

And now he couldn't sleep.

/\

Alfred couldn't explain _how_ he felt it, but he knew something was wrong. He woke at four thirty in the morning feeling off, but not the usual symptoms of rheumatism or old age sinking in. No, this feeling was not unlike apprehension and dread.

He slipped on his old green robe and padded out of his room to check on Mr. Wayne. He wasn't surprised to see the bed of the millionaire empty, but his insides were telling him it was someone else about whom he was worried.

Alfred sighed. He was getting too old for this. He went back to his room and dressed for the day, and then headed for the elevator. He hit _PrG_ for "private garage" and felt the elevator shoot down to the earth.

It didn't take long to get to Mr. Wayne's city "bat cave" or whathaveyou. He slipped through the large door and descended to the vast underground chamber. His footsteps echoed off the cement walls as he made his way to the far end of the room to a metal door. Scraping it open, he looked inside.

Keeping Sorora hidden down here was certainly not Alfred's idea, and God knows he'd done his part dissuading Mr. Wayne from trapping her down here. However, he had to agree that down here was probably the safest place for her.

However, as practical as her hiding place may seem, Afred's heart nearly broke when he saw her curled up by the doorframe. The room, entirely bare-- save the cot- seemed to swallow the woman up whole and cast her to the wall.

Alfred bent down, and saw large chunks of hair littered around the woman. Even more concerned, he gently laid a hand on the woman's shoulder, and she jerked awake.

Sorora turned her head to look blankly at him.

"Good morning," he greeted kindly, gripping her arm and guiding her to her feet. "Slept well, did we?"

"Not with all the bats," Sorora replied. Alfred hid his concern and confusion.

"Bats?"

Sorora regarded his challenge by looking around. "They must have gone."

"Of course," Alfred agreed, worried. "Come now, Miss Sorora. I'm taking you to more comfortable lodgings."

Sorora said nothing more, but silently followed him.

Going against Mr. Wayne's orders was something Alfred was not entitled to do. In fact, it was against every part of his job description, and the butler could only hope that maybe (just maybe) he wouldn't regret his rebellion.


	7. Early in the Morning

**Chapter Seven**

Rational or no, Dr. White was going to strangle Mr. Reese.

No, she wouldn't _kill _him. But she was fuming. She raced her car through the empty streets of Gotham, trying with all her might not to wreck. It couldn't be later than five--the sun was still deep below the earth, but Dr. White had no concern for Mr. Reese's sleep schedule. She needed the name, and she needed it now.

The _gall_ of saying _Bruce Wayne_ was Batman! How could he have expected her to accept that as a sufficient answer? His perception of her intelligence was insulting.

Bruce Wayne.

He might as well have said Tom Cruise. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, Dr. White glanced at the address she'd written down. 85th and Gambol, Apt. 36b. She floored the acceleration pedal as she turned on to Gambol and 60th, and watched the street numbers grow larger.

_Crunch_

Dr. White lurched forward as her seatbelt dug into her neck. The car she'd hit headed straight on 71st skidded sideways several feet before rocking to a halt. Dr. White caught her breath and checked her pulse. Higher than normal, but no sign of an impending panic-attack. She stepped shakily out of the car and made for the one she'd hit. The door swung open and out stepped a distinguished old man with brilliantly white hair.

"Madame, I hope you have a good reason for your haste," he said stiffly, extending a hand. Dr. White shook it sheepishly, and pulled her pocketbook from her purse. Her hand shook violently as she handed him a card.

"My insurance, Mr. . . ."

"Alfred. But don't worry," the old man added, looking more critically at her car, which had only a small dent on the front. He glanced back at the Cadillac he'd been driving; the whole front half of the hood was crumpled. Smoke issued from the engine.

"I daresay I'm to blame, too," he continued. In her haze of shock and adrenaline, Dr. White opened her mouth to tell him he was absolutely wrong, but he held up a hand to silence her. "Please. This damage is nothing--my employer has wrecked more cars than he or I am willing to count. He'll not be angry with this little fix-up, and I'm sure you'd like to keep a clean record?"

"You're too kind," Dr. White argued softly, but the man just smiled. "Will your car still run?"

"Oh, I believe it will get me where I need to go," Alfred assured her. "Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Hello, Dr. White."

The doctor spun towards the source of the voice and found herself looking at Sorora. She almost cried with relief. Everything that had happened to her that night and morning until the moment she saw Sorora had come unpleasantly and with a side of despair. Seeing the woman for whom she'd been searching calmed Dr. White's nerves like no other.

"Sorora!" she exclaimed, "Where have you been?"

Before the woman could answer, Alfred replied, "I was running some early-morning errands for my employer when I found this young woman wandering the streets. I offered to drive her to her destination."

"Where are you headed?" Dr. White asked. Sorora said nothing; her expression was blank. "Sir," Dr. White started, turning to the man. "I'm an in-house psychologist at Gotham City Police Department; I interviewed Ms. Sorora the other day, and it would be no trouble for me to take her on to her destination and let you continue with your agenda."

"That's very kind, but-"

"I'll go with Dr. White." Sorora's voice was hard with resolve, but Dr. White also hear something like relief in her answer.

Alfred looked flustered, but merely dipped his head in a nod. "Good day to you, then."

Sorora opened the passenger door and slid into the seat, slamming the door hard behind her. Dr. White waited a few moments out of courtesy to see that the man's car could start, and then started her own.

"You're coming back to my apartment," Dr. White said flatly. Sorora nodded, silent. "Where were you for the past few days?"

"In a room," Sorora answered.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Did Batman keep you there?"

"Yes."

"How did you escape?"

"That man brought me out. Said he'd take me to a better place."

"And that's where you're going now, Sorora," Dr. White promised, trying to keep the anger in her voice to a minimum.

"There aren't, by any chance, bats in your home, are there?" Sorora looked straight ahead as she asked the question, her voice betraying some sort of fear stirred within her mind.

"No. No bats and no darkness. You'll be safe."

Something like a smile twitched on Sorora's face, but Dr. White was too focused on driving to notice.

/\

The lab lay in disarray. The investigation, although still active, held no men nor women at four thirty in the morning. Yellow tape still decked the tables and walls, and the cold fluorescent light cast a harsh gleam to the brushed steel shelves and countertops.

Bruce stood before a cabinet that stood in the corner by the red armchair. Blood spattered the ground, but he paid no heed. Now was not the time to mourn. He examined the faucet within the cabinet that was attached to several knobs and handles--Dr. Young's combination to the vault of his lovingly-crafted inventions. Bruce picked up a shard of plastic from a broken tray and scraped it over the faucet. A single drop of liquid transferred from the head to the transparent tray, and Bruce held it up to light.

Lavender. His fear was confirmed. The Joker must have forced the combination from the chemist to steal the Decagent and, having no further use for the man, killed him. With the chemical, the world was his buffet--who would he force death by old age upon?

Bruce cast the plastic to the ground in frustration. The apple had been a herring--a distraction from the Joker's true plan, and now he had less than a day to discern where and who the madman would strike next.

It was time to pay Gordon a visit.

/\

Helena Avery had trouble sleeping since she switched to her latest heart medication. She stretched one blue-veined hand to her lamp and clicked the bulb on. Dull yellow light illuminated her small room as she sat up slowly, slugging her old legs out of bed. She switched her oxygen tubes from her bedside filter to her portable canister.

Time for a walk.

She enjoyed her short rounds of the basement at Golden Days. Walking--even the shortest distances- made her short of breath and were the perfect solution to insomnia. She stepped into her thin fuzzy slippers and grasped her walker. With much effort, she hauled herself out of the bed and stood, wobbling, for a moment.

Tunnel vision faded and she took the few steps out of her room and into the hall. She instantly realized something was different. Most often the janitors left only a few key lights on at this time in the morning, but now every fluorescent tube in the hall was lit.

_The new janitor, Diggs, probably forgot to switch them off_, she reasoned pleasantly. More light was always a good thing.

Helena checked her time gauge on her oxygen. She had about half an hour before she'd need a new source. That gave her plenty of time to exhaust herself. She started shuffling down the long hall, letting her mind shift absently from memory to memory, idea, to idea. In her age it was difficult to concentrate on one single thing. Not that she needed to, anymore. Her working days were over, and now she'd be spending--

--Walter left his door open again. _That silly old goat, _she thought, softly pulling the door closed for him. He was a kind man; he reminded her of--

--_it's been so long since I've seen_ Gone with the Wind. Helena had a copy of the book somewhere on her massive shelf. She resolved to finish the book before she would--

--a new janitor must have been hired. His back was turned to her as he bent over something. He looked very out-of-place. Most janitors wore blue jumpsuits. This man wore a purple coat and purple pants.

_Must be a union thing_, Helena mused, and shuffled closer to him. He was leaning over a steel barrel of sorts.

"Good morning, son," she greeted kindly, pushing her walked closer. The man jumped and whirled around, something flickering silver in his palm.

Fashion truly has changed over the years. Helena wondered if she'd ever understand kids these days. The man had painted his whole face in white, and drawn a red smile almost to his blacked-out eyes. His hair was tinged green. He smiled oddly at her through the make-up.

"Hello, gorgeous," he replied. Such a strange man. "You _are_ having a freak dream, aren't you?"

"Pardon?" Helena asked, breathing heavily from her exercise.

"I mean _me,_" the man answered, gesturing grandly to himself. "Why would a sweet young puss dream about a freak like me? Now go back to bed, darling. The sun's coming up."

"I thought I'd go for a walk," she said, still trying to catch her breath.

"And you're _obviously _exhausted. Now go to bed." Upon saying this, the man caught her thin arm in the crook of his elbow. "Come now, Suzanna, don't you cry for me. I'll take you back to your room."

"My name is Helena."

The strange man escorted her to her room, and even tucked her back in bed.

"Now you start dreaming pleasanter dreams, gorgeous," he whispered softly, and closed the door behind him.

_What a funny little man, _Helena thought. _I wonder if Diggs hired him. I really should ask him in the--_

_--mercy, I almost forgot the change my oxygen!_ She quickly changed the tubes to connect to her filter. What had she been thinking about? Ah, yes:

_Gone with the Wind._


	8. Sister for Sister

A/N: I'm still alive! A million apologies for those who are still keeping up with this (I love you). I hit some massive writer's block on all my stories, but this one especially. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Eight

Dr. White fell against the front door to her apartment in exhaustion as she forced in the key. Sorora stood patiently behind her as she swung the door open.

"After you, doctor." If it had been anyone else, Dr. White would have thought they were being snide. She entered the front hallway and ushered Sorora in.

The sun was finally rising, casting a warm golden light through the wide living room window. It had been a long night, and Dr. White was ready to call in sick, make up a bed for Sorora on the couch, and sleep until noon.

Unfortunately, opposing plans had already been made for her.

As Dr. White followed Sorora into the living room, she wondered what the woman could be staring at so avidly. Her framed copy of _Madame Suggia_, though captivating, could hardly hold one's interest so completely.

"Do you like Augustus John's--"

The half-finished question hung in the air as Dr. White entered the living room and saw the damage. The futon was slashed into crescent-shaped scars and scratchy black writing covered her immaculately white walls.

_Throw her to the wolves. Alone. Remember the roses? _

Dr. White remembered his threat against her own sister, and could only assume he meant her to bring no one else. But wolves?

"Wolves?" Sorora echoed her thoughts. Dr. White went to her computer, drew up a search engine, and typed _wolves, gotham city._

No, she did not want to buy a wolf. She looked to the next hit, a website for Gotham tourism. _. . . perfect for picnics, try Steelman Memorial Park, located on the south end of the Gotham City Museum. In 1994, Gotham City erected two wolf statues at the gate of the park in memory of the Hector T. Steelman, a conservationist known for his dedication to the preservation of the majestic timber wolf. _

"Steelman Memorial Park," she muttered, staring at the screen. It fit easily enough, but now that she had a destination she realized it didn't matter, because there was no way she would give this woman over to a madman. With her mind as fragile as it was, there was no telling what a reunion might cause. Psychosis? Shock? Hysteria? Sorora was not a small woman, and Dr. White wouldn't be able to restrain her, and there was no use convincing herself otherwise. Not even to mention what the Joker might do to Sorora. He had no qualms killing innocent people--his attack on Gotham General, the ferries, and the chemist were proof enough for any critic.

_But what about Anna?_ Dr. White's emotional side argued. It seemed to be a choice between sisters: hers . . . or his. Her calculating, analytical mind was recalling the files she had read on the Joker. He seemed to delight in forcing people to make choices like these.

Dr. White realized she had been wrapped in thought for several minutes and turned in her computer chair to face Sorora.

"So where should I go?" She asked, still standing in the middle of the room. Dr. White's heart froze and plummeted to her stomach.

"Go? Sorora, I can't turn you over to the Joker. He's dangerous."

"He's my brother." There was nothing but confidence in her voice. She paused, and added, "Where's your bathroom?"

The normal question caused dissonant cords with Dr. White's reeling thoughts, and she weakly pointed towards a hallway leading to the master bedroom. As she heard the lock click on the bathroom door, Dr. White realized what she had to do.

Grabbing her Swiffer duster from the kitchen along with a ball of string, she rushed to the bathroom door. Looping the string tightly around the long handle several times, she gently set the duster horizontal on the doorknob. The bathroom door opened away from the hallway. If she could fasten a brace against the door, she could make sure Sorora wouldn't try to do anything selfless. Or stupid. Dr. White circled the string around the knob several times before tying it in a double knot, and looked at her handiwork. She was no engineer, but she felt sure that her rigged lock would hold.

Without waiting to make sure, she hurried to her purse and yanked out her cell. Anna was two on her speed-dial, and soon she was waiting for her sister to answer.

"Hello?" She laughed as she answered.

"Anna! This is really important, ok?" Dr. White began, words practically racing to leave her mouth. "I need you to take Will and the kids and leave Gotham for a few days."

"What's going on?"

"It's the Joker. He's going to come for you because of something I'm about to do. He's using you as leverage to control me, but I can't let that happen."

"Jane, this is crazy." Anna sounded strained, as if hoping for a "just kidding!"

"I'm dead serious. Anna, you have to take your family and leave. Don't go anywhere predictable, in case he's been watching you."

"Jane-"

"Do it." Dr. White hung up the phone just as she began to hear the door rattling.

"Dr. White? The door is stuck." Sorora calmly assessed.

"No, it's not. I've locked you in there for your own safety."

There was a moment of silence.

"Dr. White," Sorora began again, her voice level. "You're acting just as the Batman did. I am an adult. I am capable of making my own decisions. Please let me out."

"I- can't." Dr. White's voice broke as she squeezed her eyes tight in thought. Yes, she was behaving just as that masked vigilante had, but he'd trapped her in a dark room full of bats, hadn't he? Her bathroom was spotlessly clean and very well lit. Perhaps this was different.

But she knew it wasn't. She was forcing a person to do what she thought was best. This went against her very nature, but she didn't have time to dwell on her own ethic betrayal. She needed to call Gordon.

/\

"Commissioner?" Captain Sawyer leaned against the door frame. She looked weary, Gordon thought.

"Yes, come in." The captain nearly collapsed into the chair opposite his desk.

"QRT found sixteen oil drums wrapped in wire in the basement of the retirement home. No prints or witnesses."

"Probably anyone who saw him has already forgot," Gordon laughed weakly, knowing full well he was probably too old to be making Alzheimer jokes. Sawyer's expression seemed to mirror this sentiment, and Gordon cleared his throat.

"Any countdown? Has bombsquad taken care of it?"

"Countdown estimated at eight o'clock tonight. But this bomb's a messy one. There are trick wires and small sparks that detonate long fuses to nowhere. It'll be a long, surgical process."

"But they'll have it done in time." It wasn't a question, but an order.

"Fingers crossed," Sawyer sighed. "Meanwhile, QRT is evacuating the residents. Luckily it's close to Mercy Hospital."

"Let me know when the bomb's been deactivated," Gordon finished as Sawyer stood up from the chair rather reluctantly.

"And Maggie?" Sawyer turned. "Did Dr. White call in sick today?"

"Not that I know of. I'll ask around."

No sooner had Sawyer left the room then Gordon's phone rang.

"Commissioner Gordon," he stated.

"Commissioner, it's Dr. White. I-"

"Feeling alright, doctor?"

"I-yes." She sounded confused at his concern. "Listen, the Joker has been in my apartment. I have _her_, and he told me I need to bring her to the gates of Steelman Memorial Park as soon as possible. He threatened me on my sister's life that I had to come alone, but Anna's on her way out of town. I need your help."

"Where is Sorora?"

"Trapped in my bathroom. She seems to think turning herself in to the Joker will be no big deal. Commissioner, I'm worried how she'll react to meeting him again after all these years, and I don't think she's safe from him or herself."

"You're doing the right thing, Jane. I'll send some undercovers over to the park right now. They'll find him. You and your sister will be safe. Do you know where Anna's headed?"

"I didn't ask."

"No worries. The Joker probably won't obsess over finding her. Especially if he's waiting for his own sister elsewhere. I'll send over some men to protect your apartment. Don't leave. Don't let Sorora out. Is that clear, Dr. White?"

"Yes," her voice finally seemed a little calm.

/\

The walls were thin. Sorora could hear Dr. White on the phone with someone. She glanced around the small bathroom, her eyes resting on the short, wide window above the bathtub for the first time. It had a latch.

Sorora stepped out of her slippers and up onto the edge of the tub. Unhooking the latch, she propped the window opened and peered down. Dr. White's apartment was two stories up. She surveyed the window again. The ledge overhung the inside wall farther than it did the outside wall; presumably to function as a shelf. It would not provide much support for her to jump, but she almost knew she could fit through.

Pulling her chest up to the window and sticking the front half of her body through was the hardest part. Falling was the easiest part. She tucked her body close to her and pushed off the ground as she hit, rolling straight into a parking meter. A sharp pain lanced through her shoulder, but pain was nothing. She had learned as a little girl that anything she suffered would go away eventually. This was probably a dislocated shoulder. She would manage.

Dr. White had said something about a Stellmon or a Steelman Park. This was likely her destination. She would rather not pay a social call to her brother, but the importance of this needing to happen had been carved all over Dr. White's furniture.

He would never hurt her. She was the one he went to for comfort so many years ago. She was the one who told him the lovely stories about kings and dragons, jokers and jesters. She was the one who dabbed away at his bleeding cheeks with strips of sheet for which she would later be beaten for ripping perfectly good cloth. He would never hurt her.


End file.
